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He starts to pound into me. And the pressure, the pace—all of it just rockets through my veins until every cell in my body feels it—feels him.

And then one becomes two.

Because with Less, you always get more.

And as he loses himself to the pleasure, I watch him shamelessly.

And when he collapses on top of me, I hold him through it.

And I kiss him everywhere I can.

A moment or a year later—who can tell at a time like this—Alessio lifts his head, and he cradles my face between his hands.

Then he kisses me softly.

And the world outside the room just fades away.

He doesn’t stop. And I don’t ask him to.

The rest of the night dissolves into warmth and tangled sheets, quiet laughter, and soft apologies neither of us quite knows how to finish.

We fall asleep sometime near dawn tangled together beneath the covers, his arm heavy around my waist like it belongs there.

For the first time in years—I sleep peacefully.

Morning comes far too soon.

A knock at the door pulls me from sleep.

I groan softly and bury my face in Alessio’s shoulder.

“Don’t answer it,” I mumble.

He chuckles against my hair.

“Wish I could.”

A few minutes later he returns with a tray balanced in one hand.

Breakfast.

Coffee.

Fresh fruit.

Croissants.

The kind of fancy room service you only get in houses owned by billionaires.

“Carter must’ve sent it up,” he says.

“Probably part of the performance package.”

I sit up in bed, wrapping the sheet around myself.

“Food smells amazing.”

But before either of us touches it, Alessio notices something tucked beneath the silver lid of the tray.